T is for Tracy, C is for Chaos
by Darkflame's Pyre
Summary: Tracys each have their own unique, personal brand of chaos... John Tracy has discovered this all too well... Sometimes we just have to grin and take things as they come. A birthday present for my dear friend LexietFive. Happy Birthday hunny! Xx TV Verse.


**A/N: This is a birthday fic for LexietFive, who has her special day today. I asked her what she wanted, and she asked for a few different things. I couldn't put all of them in, as dear Johnny decided to go off on his own tangent, but I'm hoping that it's still both fluffy and humorous enough to be to your liking hun. Happy Birthday and I dearly hope you like the coincidences, because I promise you I'd written that before you said anything! :D**

**Disclaimer: If not for Gerry and Sylvia Anderson, I would not be able to play in this wonderful playground, so no; I do not own the Thunderbirds.**

John Tracy sits rigidly in his seat on the couch in his father's office, doing his best not to explode in agitation. Jeff looks at him expressionlessly, but John can see something in his eyes that he felt sure is approaching amusement.

John can see the reasons for that, but at this precise moment, he fails to share the feeling.

Today is supposed to have been a fairly ordinary day, despite the underlying significance of the date, but so far, it has been anything but.

It wouldn't have been half so bad it if was just the one thing wrong, but no, Fate clearly doesn't like him today.

He'd woken up comparatively muzzy-headed and tired, but he'd at first attributed that to the fact that he was only just getting over a cold he'd received from being soaked through on the first (and only) rescue he'd been on since he'd come down from 'Five a week ago. That wasn't the case, as he'd discovered when he'd walked down the stairs to meet his father in the lounge for breakfast, his brothers having been called out on a rescue in the middle of the night.

Jeff had refused to allow him to go, saying that because he was sick the night hours were out of bounds for him until he'd totally recovered. Didn't appear that there'd be much chance of that changing for a while though, if he was to go by the first thing his father had said upon him walking into the office.

He'd thought it odd that he was more tired than usual, and the way he was slightly itchy over his right side, back and stomach was chalked up to the fact that his bedclothes were dampened with sweat from overactive slumber. He'd not even looked in the bathroom mirror as he'd used the facilities, and had merely stumbled down the stairs to check the progress on the rescue.

His father had taken one look at him as he stood unsteadily in the doorway, and had jumped up from the desk chair to push John down onto the couch, feeling his forehead firmly for fever, and frowning at the apparently unfavourable result.

Shingles, he has, according to Brains, which is just _brilliant_.

He'd had the chickenpox when he was a little boy, at the same time that Scott and Virgil had. Kent however, had not, nor when Alan and Gordon had gotten them a few years later, having been in the hospital following one of the spates of illness that accompanied his heart condition on both occasions, as it happened.

The five of John's siblings had been on a rescue to a dangerous warehouse fire in a small English town about a fortnight before John came down from the satellite. Two of the children they had picked up from the closest, burning neighbourhood (brown-haired three-year-old twin boys that had reminded Scott of Virgil and Kent, he'd said), had turned out to be in the throes of the chickenpox. Kent had assisted in the rescue of them and their parents before they'd actually realised that the boys were ill, and had ended up coming down with the virus himself, just four days later.

John's third-oldest brother had gotten through it with minimum fuss, despite the concern over the fever associated with the illness on the young man's heart, as well as the potential dangers that came with contracting the chickenpox as an adult, but John had come down on his normal date, as they'd all thought that Kent was no longer contagious. Obviously not, as the presence of the virus has re-ignited the dormant chickenpox in his nerve roots from that bout earlier on in life.

The laughter in his father's gaze is rising significantly, spreading to his mouth, where his lips are twitching in private amusement, and though John is feeling pretty damn miserable at this moment, he knows exactly why his father is fighting a grin. If John wasn't so sore and achy, he'd probably see the amusement in what his brothers were most likely going to say when they saw him, but right now, he sits on his hands, trying not to get mad at his father's fond look.

God, his head aches.

##

If John had a camera as his oldest brother comes trooping into the lounge through the entrance between the twin lamps, still in uniform (just sans sash and hat), he'd have had ample blackmail material to use as he wished.

Scott is that surprised.

John knows he looked an absolute sight; he'd gone and had a look in the mirror after all, when he went to have a quick, cool shower and change out of his pyjamas - even if it was only into sweats and a light cotton button-down shirt. The rather painful, mildly tingly sensation has spread in that short hour from over his torso and back to creep up his chest, and over the right side of his neck and cheek. The red rash is sore and inflamed more than itchy now, even with his gentle ministrations with the face-washer, so he hasn't even bothered to shave what fine there is stubble there. His head throbs, and despite the ibuprofen tablets he's taken to try and calm the skin tenderness, John still feels awful. His nose is still snuffy from the cold as well, which makes him sound like he has cotton wool stuffed into his sinuses.

He feels almost selfishly grateful that his grandmother is in Kansas for the fortnight visiting some of her friends from their hometown, because though he loves her, she has an awful penchant for smothering John and his brothers when they are unwell. Tin-Tin is also gone to stay with Penelope at Foxleyheath, so he also doesn't have to put up with her comments on how awful he looks. He loves Tin-Tin like a sister, but he just doesn't need that right now.

He has enough to deal with right here with Big Brother One.

Scott is across the room like a shot, to where John is curled miserably into a ball beneath his blanket, trying to read his book through the thumping headache. Scott puts a finger beneath his chin and turns his cheek to face him, a hiss and a sympathetic smile tugging at his lips as he takes in the discolouration and raised blisters that are beginning to form. He shakes his head fondly. "Only you would manage to get shingles for your birthday Johnny. Many happy returns anyway."

Scott ruffles John's hair and John grunts in reply, glaring back at him. He flattens the cowlick on the side of his forehead and pulls the blanket around his shoulders to cover the bare skin beneath his unbuttoned shirt. He is both hot and cold at the same time, and it's annoying.

"Leave off, Scott." He retorts, "You better hope you don't go and have it happen to you too." He wants to rub at the sore patches of skin rather badly, but he also doesn't want to get them infected. It's a lose-lose situation, as far as John is concerned.

To change the subject, John looks at his father, who, sitting at the desk is watching the two of them interact with fondness on his face. "How far out are the others?" he asks.

Jeff looks at the chronometer on the desk. "Around ten minutes. Why?"

John glowers. "So I can strangle our brother!" Okay, so he isn't truly changing the subject, but he's close!

Scott looks confused. "Why would you strangle Virgil? What did he do to you?"

John scowls, irritated. He knows what Scott is doing, and he just doesn't have the patience for it. Not today. "Not Virgil, you dolt! Kent!" Giving up on his resolution not to do so, he rubs furiously at the side of his neck, only to have his arm grabbed at the wrist and restrained by Scott's quick hand.

His five-years-older brother inspects John's raggedy fingernails, before putting the apparently offensive appendage firmly down on the sofa beside John's leg. A meaningful look is all it takes for John to descend into mulish grumpiness. He was only going to have rubbed it a little!

He rolls his eyes at himself. He sounds like a four-year-old in his head and that's not a good thing. His more immature side seems to come out when he's feeling under the weather, and this occasion is turning out to be no exception. Twenty five years old and he can't even deal with a bit of an itch and sore skin. Brilliant. He huffs loudly and snatches up the glass of orange juice sitting on the coffee table to have something to do with his hands.

He hears his father chuckle at him, and Scott taps him firmly on the shoulder, before his oldest brother stands up, his knees cracking loudly as they unlock from his crouched position. John cringes, but otherwise ignores the unpleasant sound.

Scott ambles off to get showered and changed, and aside from the rustling of the papers in his father's hands as he reviews his monthly reports, silence reins in the lounge.

John has finished his orange juice and is drowsing slightly against the arm of the couch, when there is a loud succession of thudding footsteps and a loud cheer that echoes in his aching brain. Clearly no-one has informed the late arrivals of the situation…

"Happy Birthday Johnny!"

The words, coming from two different voices; completely unanimous and perfectly pitched together, are coincidental with two impacts to his legs and chest. John lets out an uttered _oof!_ as two of his brothers; immediately older and immediately younger, throw themselves at him, and he has a sharp cough as his lungs are crushed.

John swears; rubbing his sore chest and wincing as the shirt scrapes against the tender skin. "Did you really have to turn me into pancake?" He glares at Kent and Gordon –by far the most hyperactive of his brothers– whose eyes both widen as they take in John's pale face and the vivid red rash. "Thanks though, I guess." He smiles weakly at them, rubbing his forehead tiredly.

Even as John ducks his head beneath his father's loud recriminations about his language, Kent grimaces in sympathy, still having patches of dry, itchy skin where his chickenpox blisters had crusted. Rather than making a comment, he merely smiles ruefully at his younger brother in what John supposes could be construed as an apology, before heading the way Scott did, but not before cheekily pinching their father's half-full coffee cup and snaffling a sip, even as he dances around Jeff's snatching hands.

Gordon, forever six years old, even at age twenty two, and clearly still buzzing from the residual adrenaline rush that comes as a result of a mid-ocean rescue –a not-unusual occurrence when he has the chance to pilot Thunderbird Four– doesn't let John's apparent state of invalidity stop him from fizzing like a can of soda; even now that the said rescue is over. His sense of humour has certainly not been dampened by the rush of endorphins.

More like enhanced, John thinks ruefully, as his younger brother smirks, his eyes shining with the imminent smart-alec comment that he is sure to spout off about John turning into a mutated snow leopard when they weren't looking, or some other nonsense.

Fortunately, he is saved by Virgil. Forever the medic of the family, though he is only just slightly more trained than the rest of them in the emergency medicine profession, he is often the one that the brothers look to for guidance on medical matters. Like Scott, as soon as he sees the abnormality on John's skin, he trots over to him, pushing Gordon firmly out of the way, and putting out his hand, palm facing John's forehead in a command for the younger man to lean forward so his temperature can be checked.

John does so, somewhat reluctantly, having been relatively comfortable in the nest he's made for himself. His back is aching now something shocking, and it protests rudely as he shifts to comply with Virgil's order to lift his shirt off of his shoulders so his brother can see the blisters.

His second-oldest brother whistles appreciatively at the sight of them; gently pressing the area around the rash on his ribs. Grabbing the small bottle of sanitiser that John has sitting next to the tissues on the side table, Virgil cleans his hands as to not spread the germs John is no doubt carrying, before lifting his younger brother's chin and examining the pallor of his face.

"You do know you're going to be miserable for a while, don't you bro?" He says playfully, a small smile spreading across his face as he takes in John's mutinous expression. "That rash is looking to be pretty severe, and you know that the worse it is when it first appears, the longer it lasts. Have you taken an antihistamine or anything to take out the sting of it?"

John nods a little sleepily, wanting the brother parade to end so he can go back to his half-nap, before the inevitable hints for him to open his birthday gifts begin. "I took some ibuprofen, and Brains gave me some Tylenol about half an hour ago." He rubs gently at the back of his own neck, where the skin is uncomfortably hot and tight as a result of the fever. "I ache like the dickens though."

Virgil nods understandingly, rubbing John on the back. "I bet, and you're gonna for a while. You should get some sleep if you're gonna want to have enough energy to deal with the horde later."

John nods back, knowing that his brother didn't necessarily need to have said that last sentence, but getting that as usual, Virgil is just being blunt and saying what's on his mind. John forgives him, as he's not being an idiot like Gordon and making stupid faces at him, even though he does it silently, in deference to John's obvious headache.

Virgil pats John lightly on the shoulder like Scott did, and leaves him to settle down and drift off again. Gordon, having been standing sentry at the doorway to the lounge to wait for Virgil as he goofs off, mouths a Happy Birthday to John. John nods in acknowledgement, before closing his eyes.

##

He's feeling a little better by the time he wakes again, having absorbed the sugar that the glass of orange juice contained. Wondering what it was that woke him, he realises that his father has left the lounge, and that the lights are dimmed. Clearly it is past lunch time and well into the afternoon, judging by the quality of the natural light flooding into the side room.

He mutters to himself peevishly as the dry skin on his neck catches on the couch material. Soothing the sting with his fingers and managing to resist the urge to rub it into oblivion, John carefully sits up and spies a glass of water sitting on the table next to him. Draining it gratefully, John frowns and realises that it's highly unusual for his brothers and father all to be absent from the lounge, especially in the aftermath of a rescue when everyone usually takes the time to relax. But then, he supposes that the fact he was tuckered out on the couch and they didn't want to wake him up is enough to explain it.

Wobbling a little and cursing his swimming head, John meanders out of the lounge and towards the hallway, trailing blanket and the dressing gown he'd slung over the side of the couch as he goes.

The rest of the house is abnormally quiet, and his skin is becoming slightly irritated by his shirt, so John absently rubs his side as he heads towards the kitchen in the hope of getting another glass of juice and perhaps a yoghurt or something else light to eat that won't irritate his stomach.

Pot of blueberry yoghurt and spoon in hand, and having still not come across any one of his family, or either Brains or Kyrano in the meantime, John decides that because he's awake and craving fresh air, he'll go out on the deck and maybe sit on the steps for a bit. The others are probably in their father's study, he reasons, going through the debrief for the rescue, not wanting to disturb him in the lounge. He'll thank them for that later.

It's not until John reaches the double glass doors that leads toward the decking and the picnic area near the pool that he realises that he must've slept longer than he thought, for there is his family; ranged around the pool, watching Gordon swim laps up and down. Kyrano is serving his father and Brains a drink, while Scott and Virgil talk on the steps leading up to the stand-alone lanai. Kent is nowhere to be seen at first, but then John realises that his dancer brother has climbed up on top of the lanai itself, his feet braced against the edge of it, his left arm in the air as he talks into his wrist communicator.

That's not what catches John's interest though, now that he's somewhat more energised by his snack. It's the stack of birthday gifts sitting on the table between his father and Brains. He grins, in anticipation. His brothers' birthday gifts to him are always interesting, to say the least, but perfectly suited to his needs.

Scott notices him first, and judging by the immediately-following attention paid to him by Gordon as he pops his head out of the water in the middle of his lap, his red-haired brother has obviously been waiting for a while for him to emerge.

Virgil gets up slowly and saunters over to him as Kyrano offers him a serene birthday greeting, his older brother eyeing him carefully as he tows John towards the table, where his father is pulling out a chair for him to be pushed into.

Kent drops down from the roof in a graceful bound as Gordon comes up behind him to lean on his back, dripping blessedly-cool pool water on the back of his hot neck. Jeff flips on the vid-screen to call up Alan where he's on rotation on Thunderbird Five, as Virgil slips him a couple of Tylenol and a glass of water. Scott sits in the chair beside John and slings an arm around his shoulders, careful to avoid brushing his blisters, and smirks pointedly as he slides the closest box on the table towards him; an obvious ploy to get John to open his gift first.

"The biggest and the best." His oldest brother smirks and John snickers loudly, even though he's in the middle of a drink of water and sputters it almost into Scott's face.

"Happy Birthday John."

His father smiles at him and John can't help but grin back, waving at Alan's cheerful birthday greeting as his baby brother beams at him from 'Five's video link.

"Thanks guys."

The sun is setting as he tolerates Virgil and Brains prodding him and examining his still-throbbing rash, but there's freshly-tossed salad on the table, hidden beneath one of Brains' Ever-Cool covers, as well as a jug of cold lemonade, and John knows that though he's sick as a dog right now, just spent the majority of his twenty-fifth birthday sleeping, and probably will be stuck with this damned rash for the next few weeks; he's pretty content.

**Happy Birthday sweetie! Enjoy the rest of your day! Xx**


End file.
